


Challenge Accepted

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 15:29:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10642731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: “You geezers want to play us? We’ll spot you a few points.”





	

Kentarou is usually pretty punctual, but today Satsuki’s beat him to the street court, even with stopping to pick up coffees. She checks her phone; there’s nothing new. The sky is a bright blue, so much it almost hurts to look at the opposite way of the sun. It’s getting to be that warmer time of year; perhaps she should have brought sunscreen if she’s going to end up taking off her hoodie (still, it’s not too warm for hot coffees). She checks her phone again; there’s nothing from Kentarou (must be still asleep or fell asleep somewhere along the way). Across the court, a couple of middle-aged men are warming up for what looks like a one-on-one. She and Kentarou might be able to take them two-on-two; it depends on their stamina and what kind of moves they actually have. Their first few layups aren’t much, bouncing off the backboard and nowhere near the hoop or hitting the rim and falling away, but they start to get better as they loosen up. Satsuki’s phone vibrates.

_I fell asleep on the train._

Satsuki snorts.

 _Your coffee might get cold_ , she types back.

_I’m one stop away._

The middle-aged men are now facing off, trying to fake each other out and lunge for the loose ball. They both tend to overcommit to their moves; they don’t have the fast reflexes to switch directions in the middle. They’re actually pretty evenly-matched against each other, both of them fair shooters (to about half a meter in front of the arc), and when they make the right guess they can defend each other effectively. It would be relatively simple for her and Kentarou to win; all they’d have to do is read them right (which, well, wouldn’t be much of a challenge).

They’re getting pretty winded when Kentarou shows up, slipping his hands around Satsuki’s waist and leaning his forehead on her shoulder like he’s still so tired. Satsuki nudges his hand until he takes his still-warm blackeye and lifts his head up like he’s just been delivered some kind of cure-all.

“You’re amazing,” he says, slurping down what sounds like half the coffee at once.

“How was your nap?”

“Great,” he says. “But then we braked hard and I fell on this old lady I was sitting next to and she shoved me off and I woke up. We got any competition?”

“Hmm,” says Satsuki. “We could ask.”

(The middle-aged men are still the only other people on the street court, and it’s early but still—it’s a nice day.)

“Hey!” Kentarou yells.

The men look up from their water break in the corner of the court; their faces and shirts are streaked with sweat. It seems maybe a little unfair.

“You geezers want to play us? We’ll spot you a few points.”

Kentarou’s abrasiveness can be needless sometimes, but in this case these men seem the type to be motivated by his stupid name-calling, whether it’s to teach kids like them a lesson or to go hard and disprove them. And it’s working; the shorter of the two men sputters while the other crosses his arms over his chest.

“You’ll be sorry you did,” he says, and then claps his partner on the shoulder. “You ready? Or do you kids need time to warm up?”

“We’re fine,” says Satsuki. “Whenever you are.”

She sets down her coffee and the shorter man passes her the ball; Kentarou tries to run his fingers through his hair but the gel is holding it too strongly in place. Satsuki meets the shorter man’s gaze and checks the ball back to him.

“Generous,” says his partner.

Satsuki says nothing; she’s already too focused on the setup. She’s staying more than half a meter in front of the shorter man, trying to act like she’s blocking off his passing lane. She’s not, really; she knows he’s not going to, trying to pinpoint her defensive skills (which, physically, might be less than a match for his shot—but it’s an awfully good thing a lot of the game is mental). He fakes; it’s obvious; she doesn’t even follow him and the realization dawns on him like light through a slowly-opening door, that this would be the perfect opportunity if he wasn’t halfway off-balance. He takes the shot anyway; she jumps for a block (high probability of failure, but there’s fun in that). The ball sails over her hands and ricochets off the backboard; Kentarou’s read the trajectory, too. He’s there to catch it and hand the ball off to her.

She dribbles quickly up the court, still giving their opponents time to catch up. Satsuki fakes; the shorter man follows her move. She moves to fake again; this time he doesn’t follow and this time she breaks to the side; her path is open and all she needs is a quick bounce-pass right to Kentarou. He nets the easy layup and they’re on the board.

The men look a little worried, a little angry; their focus is slipping and it gets even easier to go back and forth, match their moves and bring their score up. The game ends quickly and Satsuki can see they won’t be welcome for much longer.

“Good game,” she says.

The taller man grunts. Satsuki takes Kentarou’s hand and they leave the court, Kentarou yawning.

“You’d better not use that to help Touou,” he says.

“You’re retired,” says Satsuki. “And we beat you without that.”

Kentarou ignores this, gaze fixed across the street. He yawns again.

“Can we get more coffee?”

“Yes,” says Satsuki.

(He’ll fall asleep on her on the way back regardless, coffee cup clutched tightly between his knees on the train, his hair coming loose with sweat, while she absently pats his head and conjures up a situation in her head where her team’s on defense and they don’t follow the fakes at the right time—easier there than when she has to implement it with Daiki and Ryou, but she’s always up for a challenge.)


End file.
